


A Narrow Escape

by gorseflower



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:46:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorseflower/pseuds/gorseflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Philip and Vera unexpectedly solve the mystery of Soldier Island, they have to decide how to handle the police investigation. Canon divergence after Blore's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"A big bear hugged one and then there were two." 

Philip had been too rattled to think straight when he saw Blore with a knife in him, but hearing the poem reminded him that the murderer was following a pattern. There would be a lull before the next attack, and now there were only two of them they could not afford another mistake. That meant getting back into the open and lighting the fire, quickly.

He set off at once, trusting Vera to follow, and barely scanned the hallway before he strode into it. It was infuriating to know that he'd missed Armstrong by minutes, but if he'd learned one thing from experience, it was that Armstrong was only seen when he wanted to be. Well, except by poor Tubbs, last night.

He paused a moment at the thought that the murderer might be losing his touch. If he were Armstrong, where would he go? His mind raced through the possibilities. They'd never caught him in the dining room. Upstairs, where he could see the whole island from the windows. He was probably waiting there now.

Vera had overtaken him even before he stopped, and when he looked round for her she was staring at him from the front door, caught between flight and fear of stepping outside alone. He put a finger to his lips, then dropped down to untie his shoelaces with his left hand, pointing the revolver at the stairs with his right. 

"What are you..."

"Shh!" His expression was enough to shut her up, and she took off her own shoes and came over to him before whispering.

"What are you doing?" 

"He's upstairs. This is our chance. Stay close, and if you hear something, drop to the floor."

Vera grabbed his arm and tried to pull him towards the door. "You won't find him. We'll be trapped..."

She was hard to shake off. "The sea's still rough. If no one comes, he'll get one of us next."

This worked. She let go of him and breathed in deeply, then glanced over at the bright rectangle of the window she'd come in by.

"Two little Soldier Boys sitting in the sun...You're right. Indoors."

In the corridor upstairs he was met with more stillness and two rows of blank closed doors. Armstrong would have to cross it if he wanted to see both sides of the island -- and he would get a nasty surprise. Philip hoped it would be sooner rather than later, because the silence was wearing on his nerves. 

There was a tug on his sleeve and his heart almost stopped even though he knew Vera was beside him. She pointed at the door to her room. It was ajar.

In a split-second decision, he ran towards it and burst through. There was a figure at the window -- a tall, narrow, elderly one, which turned to look at him with cool blue eyes. It wasn't Armstrong. It was Wargrave.

Philip fired the gun twice before he even had time to be astonished, then stood frozen as the judge dropped to the ground. Vera screamed and pushed past him to kneel at the old man's side.

"You shot him! Why...what..."

Philip shut the door, just in case, and walked over to look down at the body. He wasn't hallucinating from lack of sleep. It really was Wargrave, bleeding heavily from the chest but with no sign of a wound in his head. He reached down to touch the skin, and found it was still warm. It was several minutes before either of them spoke.

"It was Armstrong..." Vera swallowed, and forced the words out. "He said Wargrave was dead, and we believed him. They must have made a deal..."

"So Wargrave got Tubbs. And everyone else, I suppose."

"You don't know that!" Vera stood up and glared at him. "You just killed him! And he was kind...it's Armstrong who's mad!"

"Not kind enough to let us in on the deal." Philip pointed out. 

"All the same..." Vera paused and buried her face in her hands. "We should lay him out properly."

They put the judge's body on the bed, and checked his pulse again before locking the door behind them. If Armstrong was mad, he wasn't mad enough to stick around when he heard screaming and gunshots, and there was no sign of him anywhere indoors. Philip checked the pulse and breathing of every other corpse in the house, hit them to see if they responded, poked their wounds to check they were real. They all remained resolutely dead. Vera insisted on locking them in anyway.

They found Armstrong on the beach, drowned and battered by the tide. He had clearly been dead for hours, and Philip felt a little sorry for thinking him a murderer when he had only been overly trusting, and paid the price.

"So it was Wargrave all along. I should have guessed from the record. 'Prisoners at the bar.'"

Vera slid back down onto the sand and gazed thoughtfully out to sea.

"Remember when he pulled me out of the water? He couldn't climb the stairs by himself, when we arrived."

Philip was feeling lightheaded with exhaustion and relief. He climbed down after her. She smiled at him and said "We really won."

He put his arm round her and let her lean on his shoulder, and looked at his wristwatch. It was past four, and fog had settled between the island and the mainland. 

"Not much point lighting the fire now. I could sleep for a week."

Vera laughed. "I can hardly sleep in my room. I'm not that inured to corpses."

She retrieved her bag of supplies from the clifftop on the way back to the house, and they ate another meal of tinned food in the cluttered dining room. Vera had gone quiet again, and did not seem very interested in whether Wargrave's taste for murder developed before or after he was given the power of sentencing. Philip let the subject drop and they finished eating in silence.

"I'd like to stay up a bit longer," she said when he got up. "Can I borrow the revolver?"

"What for?"

"I'd feel safer. I'll bring it back when I come upstairs."

Philip was too tired to care. "OK. But be careful with it."

He left it on the table in front of her and went up to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Vera tried to open the barrel of the revolver, but it was stuck. There must be a catch. She decided to leave the bullets inside rather than risk it going off accidently. The gunshots earlier had been startlingly loud, and Wargrave's expression, suddenly twisted with pain and shock, was burned into her mind. She didn't know how Philip could do something like that and be so calm about it.

He'd given her the gun when she asked though, and he wouldn't have done that if she were his last victim. She'd rather be wrong about Wargrave than about Philip, whom she'd invited into her room at night. Tomorrow they'd be rescued, and they'd have to explain that one of England's most respected judges had been a sadist and a lunatic. Not many people would want to hear that!

It felt odd to be alone in the dining room and she left without clearing the table. The feeling of being watched still hung over her as she went upstairs, although she knew she must be imagining it. Even when Wargrave was alive, it must have been in her imagination sometimes, or they wouldn't have been able to take him by surprise. This whole set-up -- the island, the gramophone record, the poem -- it was all an attempt to get inside their heads, and, she thought firmly, she wasn't going to let him keep doing it from beyond the grave. Probably he hadn't even known what she'd told Cyril, and he'd just wanted another victim, because he was mad.

Philip wasn't watching her. He was asleep already, on top of the blanket and still in his clothes, with his shoes discarded on the floor. Anyone could have come in and attacked him, but they didn't have to worry about that now. 

What they did have to worry about, she remembered again with a qualm, was the police. What had happened had unfolded with the logic of a nightmare, but the police would be straightforward, unimaginative men like Blore and they would want everything in a rational order. And what was more rational, their story of fake deaths and mysterious disappearances or the natural conclusion when the only two survivors were an armed, self-confessed killer and his lover? She knew from the endless searches of the house that Blore, Wargrave and Miss Brent had kept records, so they would not be the only witnesses. If she knew what the police were going to think, she would be able to sleep more easily.

She started with Wargrave. His room was eerily tidy apart from the bloody mess on one pillow and she found his notebook neatly put away in the drawer of his desk. His notes on the murders, in cramped but readable handwriting, began on the first page.

Anthony Marston  
Deceased suffered choking fit, collapsed and coughed up blood, and expired almost instantaneously.  
Time of death: c. 10.45pm, 08/08/39  
Suspected cause of death: cyanide poisoning, administered via deceased's drink during period of confusion, ~~possibly self-administered~~  
Window of opportunity: estimated within thirty minutes before death due to fast-acting nature of poison and necessity of administering while potential witnesses were distracted  
Suspects: E. Armstrong, W. Blore, ~~E. Brent~~ , V. Claythorne, P. Lombard, ~~J. MacArthur~~ , ~~E. Rogers~~ , ~~T. Rogers~~ , L. Wargrave  
NB: E. R. only suspect in collusion with T. R.

The other entries followed the same formula, with an additional section listing where everyone had claimed to be during the window of opportunity. They were not particularly suggestive of a disturbed mind, but at least they were proof that something very strange had happened. 

Blore had left his notebook open on his desk, amid a scattered mess of loose papers. He too had meticulously recorded the time and date of each murder, as well as the disappearance of the revolver and the presence of an illegal substance in Marston's room. Unlike Wargrave, he had begun by writing detailed descriptions of the discovery of each body, observed with the trained eye of a policeman. Towards the end, however, his thoughts became less organised, until the description of Wargrave's body was not even clear on where they found it, and the final entry read simply 'Armstrong disappeared.' 

Vera put it aside and read as much as she could of the papers on the table without disturbing them. Outside the pages of his notebook Blore had not felt bound by the same professional objectivity. He had written out list after list of the people on the island, sometimes with detailed speculations on why or how they might have committed the murders, sometimes just adding a few words after each name. Fenian; resentful; cold-blooded; sanctimonious; neurosis; bitch. Vera's lip curled at the last one, but she left the papers in place.

Miss Brent's notebook was mostly filled with gossip about people in her village and their families, but the last few pages had quite a lot about their absent hosts' strange behaviour and the unpleasantness of the first three deaths. Vera was described as "a nice wholesome young woman" though Philip was apparently "appalling". To compound his appallingness, he hadn't put the sheet back over Miss Brent's face after checking she was dead, and the old woman was now staring blankly at the ceiling. Vera picked up the end of the sheet where it lay across her waist, and as she did so noticed an odd lump inside Miss Brent's cardigan. She pulled at the edge of the garment without touching the body, and one of the green figures from the dining room rolled out. She picked it up with a handkerchief, hastily threw the sheet back over the body, and got out of the room.

She put the figure on the table in the hall and looked at it. It was not an innocent-looking thing, and she wondered who had read a children's poem and designed something like that. Wargrave himself, maybe. She imagined him hiding it on the body, knowing no one else would want to look too closely at a corpse, and felt sick. His fingerprints might be on it though, which would be useful for their story. This gave her an idea. 

She let herself into the General's room, carrying the handkerchief again, lifted the sheet from his feet to his neck so she didn't have to look at the wound, and retrieved another figure from inside his jacket. There was yet another on Marston's body, and one under Mrs Rogers' pillow. There wasn't one on Blore, and she couldn't bring herself to touch the butchered mess that had been Rogers. So she ended up with four green soldiers lined up in front of her on the landing. She took them into Wargrave's room, lifted the mattress on the bed, and put the soldiers underneath it. Then she washed her hands thoroughly, and took the gun back to Philip's room.

She thought of waking him and telling him what she'd done, but she was still shaken from finding the figures and the prospect of explaining it all seemed too tiring. Instead she opened the curtains to let in the cool evening light ... she couldn't sleep in the dark. Really she should spend the night in Blore's or Armstrong's room, because Philip would get the wrong idea, but she'd rather be with someone she trusted than where a dead man had slept. Besides, they were both fully dressed. They could go back to behaving normally in the morning.

She rolled onto the bed, exhausted, and buried her face in the back of his neck. He stirred and Vera felt a pulse of desire, but he didn't wake and she was too tired to do anything, so she just lay still, gazing at the bare skin between his hair and his collar. 

It would be easy to help him out over Blore -- "We returned to the house together, and found Mr Blore's body in the hallway" -- but would the police accept that he shot an unarmed old man in self-defence? If he tried to blame her, though, she'd be the one they believed. Or she could tell the truth. "I returned to the house and found Mr Lombard standing over Mr Blore's body. I saw Mr Lombard shoot Justice Wargrave." They would go straight after him, and she would certainly be safe. But she didn't want to see anyone hang. He had been kind to her ... kinder than Hugo ... if she helped him he'd be grateful. And this time she wouldn't even be doing anything wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day Philip woke at dawn, as he usually did. He sat up and blinked, surprised to see the curtains open, but Vera was sleeping next to him and must have opened them when she came in. She could be a strange girl at times. He was always alert as soon as he woke up, a useful quality in the bush, but he could hear no sound except Vera's gentle breathing. 

He had slept for almost twelve hours -- and deeply too, if Vera had come in and lain down on the same bed without waking him. A night of deep sleep was always a sign he was out of a tight spot, the tension that made him alert to the sounds of danger melting away as his instincts told him he was safe. All the same, he took the revolver with him when he walked down the deserted corridor to the water closet. Best not to take any chances until he could get off the island, consign its events to his history, another assurance that he could find a way out of any ordeal.

When he got back to the room he washed and dressed, then lit a cigarette and waited for Vera to wake. As he sat in the morning sunlight his thoughts drifted back to Wargrave. Whatever the police got out of that Jew in Soho was bound to be fascinating. No wonder so many criminals hadn't stood a chance, up against that tortuous mind with its many hidden layers of deceit. But people in those positions were so often hypocrites, especially the English.

This thought applied to so many of the other guests that it kept his mind occupied until he had almost finished the cigarette. A shame they'd all caught it before he could get Wargrave, but there you were. He was alive, his girl was alive and he still had £78 of U. N. Owen's 100 guineas. He decided to wake Vera.

She was lying on the side of the bed nearest the window, back turned to the light and face half-buried in the pillow. He knelt on the floor next to her and leaned in close to her ear. 

"Vera?" 

She stirred slightly and made an incoherent noise.

He lifted her hair away from her face, then slid his hand along her waist and over her hip.

"Mm. Hugo?"

Philip knelt up again in surprise, wondering if he'd heard correctly. Vera lifted her head from the pillow, then sprang abruptly into a sitting position and looked around as though she had expected to find herself somewhere else. 

"Were you touching me?"

He smiled at her. "It's just us on the island now." 

He put a hand on her shoulder and leaned towards her, but she pushed it away and swung herself onto the floor on the other side of the bed.

"Mr Lombard." She took a deep breath. "I think that what happened the night before last may have given you the wrong impression. I acted ... out-of-character, in a difficult situation, but I am a respectable woman and I ask that you treat me as such."

Philip chuckled and stood up."Miss Brent would be proud of you. Come on, you aren't really back to all that talk? If you're worried I'll get you into trouble, there are plenty of ways around that."

She'd slept in the same limp blouse that she'd been wearing for the last two days, and her hair was hanging greasily around her shoulders. It was impressive how much she still managed to resemble the strait-laced secretary who'd arrived on the boat.

"I think you're forgetting that I'm responsible for the education, the guidance of young girls, and my position requires that my conduct be above reproach at all times. What will the police think when they arrive?"

"The police aren't here yet. We can do what we like." This didn't soften her expression, and Philip, in annoyance, tried a different tack. "Who's Hugo then? The Senior Prefect?"

There was a flash of horror on Vera's face. "That's none of your concern. I'll thank you not to bring it up again. And I'll thank you to leave now so I can wash in private." By the end of this speech her expression was stern again, but she couldn't quite hide the shakiness in her voice.

Damn!, Philip thought. He was getting the feeling you couldn't get anything out of Vera unless she'd decided to give it to you. He walked around to the door, and paused before going through it to look her up and down. When he got into the corridor he heard the key click in the lock behind him.

He leaned against the wall and lit another cigarette while he waited for her to come out.

When she opened the door he gave her his most charming smile.

"Alright, if you insist. I'm sorry I took advantage of your chaste desire to put your hands down my trousers. I won't try to ravish you again. And I won't mention your old lovers. Are we friends?"

She just glared at him, then swept back into the room and slammed the door. He felt apprehensive for the first time that morning. He didn't want things to be awkward between them, even if she wouldn't go to bed with him again. Hugo, whoever he was, clearly wasn't in the picture any more.

She hadn't locked the door this time, he realised, and he followed her in. She was standing with her arms crossed as though waiting for him. Her blouse was done up to the neck again and though her hair was still loose it was neatly brushed. 

"Look, I'm sorry. I honestly mean it. You're one of the soundest girls I've ever met, and I don't want to upset you... If you do find you're pregnant, I can help out... You know, pay for an operation, or..."

He trailed off as her face, which had been softening, took on an expression of disgust. 

"I suppose you've got experience of that sort of thing," she said in a crushing tone, then she sighed and looked at him steadily. "Philip. When the police get here, we'll be on the same side. I'm going to make coffee now, and then we'll sit down and talk everything through. Everything, so we both know what we're going to say."

"We're going to say that Wargrave was a homicidal maniac and Armstrong was in league with him. What else are we going to say? You're thinking they'll suspect us?"

"Of course they'll suspect us! Or rather, they'll suspect you. So if you've an ounce of common sense, you'll be making sure you can explain where you were during every one of those murders and you'll be making sure I can back you up every time!"

Philip was taken aback by her outburst, but he raised his eyebrows and gave her a warning look.

"Well. I'd better make sure then."

Vera met his eyes and for a moment he saw the girl who'd exchanged gazes with him in a bathing costume. "We'll both make sure. It'll be tinned meat for breakfast again, I'm afraid."

He followed her out of the room and down the stairs. It looked like the morning would be an interesting one after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Vera sat at the newly-cleared dining room table, turning one of the last two green figures over and over in her hands. Philip, sitting opposite, was reading Miss Brent's diary. Wargrave's and Blore's notebooks lay open on the table between them. Philip turned over the last page, his look of fascination increasing as Miss Brent's handwriting deteriorated. Then he looked up and said "What the hell?"

" 'The murderer's name is Beatrice Taylor'? " Vera quoted.

"The girl who killed herself? I knew she had a religious mania but I didn't know she was seeing ghosts."

For a moment Vera's mind returned to that night in the kitchen, when Wargrave had told them how justice came for Edward Seton. She'd been sure then, for a few seconds, that she saw Cyril waiting for her in the darkness. Perhaps Wargrave really had somehow known... But now she was upstairs in the morning light, and it was easy to push the thought away.

"I found some more of these figures last night," she told Philip. "They were with the bodies. Only four. I suppose Blore's is on Wargrave's body. I didn't feel like checking."

Philip laughed. "I should think not."

"I hid the rest in Wargrave's room. I expect they have his fingerprints on them."

"Smart girl. Busy last night, weren't you? Is there anything else I should know?"

"Well, you've seen how lucky we are to have the diaries. But Blore's last entry -- it just says that Armstrong disappeared. There's nothing about you getting your revolver back. And I wrote my last entry before that happened. So they won't know unless we tell them."

"And you think we shouldn't? Say Armstrong shot Wargrave and jumped over the cliff? But what about Tubbs?"

"What if we say Wargrave still had it when we found him? He threatened me, you wrestled it off him and shot him. Heroic self-defence."

Philip smiled. "Brilliant. I bet they'll believe that more easily than the truth. Giving the gun back to us while he was still on the island? He really must have been cracked."

Vera hadn't been thinking about that, but now she remembered the rush of fear when she'd seen Philip standing over Blore's body. If they hadn't found Wargrave ... two of them left, and one revolver. The thought brought on a creeping horror.

Philip was unloading the gun and looking immensely cheerful.

"Come on. We'll go back to your room and work out how it could have happened."

The task of working on their story quickly distracted Vera from her thoughts. They re-enacted it several times. First Philip played Wargrave, threatening Vera with the empty gun, then she took over the role. She stood on a stack of books to reproduce his height and let Philip seize her arm and pull the gun from her hands, slowly so that she didn't get bruised. The real Wargrave's body, lying under its sheet on the bed, gave the room a sinister atmosphere and Vera was glad when they decided they knew their parts well enough. Philip put his jacket back on, took the remaining cartridges from his pocket and put them back into the gun.

"I'll fire it at the ceiling; we can say it went off in the struggle. You'd better wait outside, bullets can go anywhere."

Vera went out and stood in the corridor, flinching slightly when she heard the gunshot on the other side of the wall. Then Philip opened the door. She pushed past him back into the room.

"My suitcase," she explained.

She pulled the case out from under the bed and began throwing in the clothes from the chest of drawers. Philip wandered restlessly towards the window, then stopped and looked up at the bullet-mark he'd made in the ceiling. 

"We'd better hope they buy it," he said.

"They will. It's a good story." It was already becoming real in Vera's mind, taking on the same jagged, nightmarish quality as her other memories of the last few days. The story about Cyril had felt like something from a film; though the water had been real the emotions hadn't and the small part of her that remained detached as she told it found it rather too sentimental to be real. This time she could recall the shock when Wargrave turned his intact head to look at her, back from the grave, and the terror when Philip pointed his gun at her while Blore lay dead at his feet. When the things that had really happened were so unreal, it was easy to believe in a few additions.

"You're very sure," said Philip. 

"Haven't you done this before? In Africa?"

"They don't ask many questions in Africa. About natives, I mean. This is different."

Vera had finished packing her clothes and walked around the room, collecting the few other things which belonged to her. 

"You mustn't think about what really happened. They'll believe you if you believe it yourself. It's easy if you're a governess, or a teacher, because they think they know who you are. But if no one else knows about it, and you don't think about it, then it ... it'll just go away."

She glanced at him as she shut the case, and saw that he was looking at her with intense interest. His gaze followed her as she walked back to the dressing table for her hairpins.

"You've done this before."

Vera did not reply. She sat down and began to fasten up her hair. Philip followed and stood behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"There's no point pretending to me. What really happened?"

He was standing very close. He leaned down next to her shoulder, where his face seemed to fill all the empty space in the mirror and she could feel his breath by her ear.

She closed her eyes before she spoke. She had never tried to put it into words before, but it was quite simple.

"I told him he could swim out to the rock. There was no one else around. Then I waited until it was too late, and went into the water."

"That's obvious enough. But why on earth?"

Vera looked up at his reflection. He was still looking towards her, and there was no shock or disgust in his gaze.

"Hugo inherited everything afterwards." She could hear some of the old hopelessness come out in her voice.

Philip stepped away, then reached into his jacket and offered her a cigarette. She turned around to take it. It was a Woodbine, and the rush of nicotine made her feel almost peaceful again. She was more grateful than ever for the bright sunshine streaming through the windows, but if only she could get away from the sea!

"I thought it might be something like that," said Philip. "Thanks for telling me. That makes us even."

~~~

He asked if he could read her diary after they'd lit the fire, and she let him. There were some comments she'd made about him a few days earlier which might amuse him, and since they'd both read the other three it was only fair. She went back up to the house to put on clean clothes, and took one last look in the dining room. The last two figures were still on the table. She left them there and went to wait for the boat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was waiting sorry to be a bit slow putting it up this week! I've only got one chapter ready this time but I'm hoping to finish another one in the next couple of days. Anyway I'm going by the book dates so chapters 1&2 happened on the 11th and 3&4 on the 12th. Concrit welcome or if anyone wants to beta that would be awesome.

Inspector Maine frowned at Philip from behind his desk.

"The address you gave in London is occupied by your sister and her husband, and has been for the past nine years. You have apparently never resided there."

Philip hadn't been sure what to expect when a strange policeman accosted him at Plymouth railway station and told him to come back to Oakbridge at once for more questioning, but he'd been prepared for considerably worse. He said "Do you mind?" and lit a cigarette, trying to conceal his relief.

"I haven't a permanent address in England, so I thought it better..."

"I think it's best if you're straight with us, Mr Lombard. Have you a permanent address outside England?"

"I've been in England for ten months, mostly in hotels. I was in Durban before that -- I went out to Cape Town in 1930 and I was in Salisbury for a few years as well. At various addresses."

"Rhodesia? Or Wiltshire?"

Philip stared at him. "Rhodesia."

"Good. We may look into that, but it's a long way to make enquiries." Maine made a note, and looked up again, this time speaking with a hard note in his voice.

"While you were there, did you in fact murder twenty-one members of an African tribe?"

"Of course not. I'd been asked to keep an eye on anyone dangerous, so I thought I'd see who else would confess. There are always sentimental Liberals and socialists spreading ridiculous ideas about what goes on in the colonies."

"I'm just trying to form a complete picture. It's a little outside the jurisdiction of the Devon County Constabulary."

Philip leaned back and slowly breathed out a mouthful of smoke.

"You'll get a complete picture from me, Inspector."

There was a tense pause before the Inspector realised that Philip wasn't going to say any more. He moved on abruptly.

"We've been going through both your statement and Miss Claythorne's. You're particularly consistent regarding what happened on the final day. Word for word in places."

"Is that surprising?"

"It could be. Of course, you and Miss Claythorne had plenty of time to discuss it before help arrived."

This seemed like it would need careful handling. Philip asked cautiously, "Have you brought this up with Miss Claythorne as well?"

"Yes, and she became very upset. Seemed to think we were accusing her of something."

"Well, you know what women are like. You can't blame her when she's had an upsetting time."

Maine nodded slowly. "Young women have their proper feelings. But we do have to go by the evidence."

"Naturally we talked about it afterwards. Surely it would be odder if we hadn't? To tell the truth, we were worried how you would take it -- just the two of us left with the gun. Vera's a very intelligent girl, but a bit imaginative."

"She speaks very highly of you." Maine stroked his moustache, then tapped his fingers absent-mindedly on one of the neatly clipped stacks of paper on his desk. Philip glanced down and had time to read 'Interview with Frederick Narracott 13th August 1939' before Maine moved it away. That was today. It had already been typed up.

"We're not in the habit of jumping to conclusions," said Maine. "Isaac Morris was found dead a few days ago -- a bit of a blow for us -- but the police surgeon has been on the island all day and we've started a thorough investigation into Justice Wargrave's affairs."

"I had a bad feeling about Wargrave from the start."

"Yes. Mr Lombard, since you've agreed to remain in Oakbridge until the inquests, please remain in Oakbridge. We may need your help at short notice."

~~~

Philip collected the parcel containing his new hillwalking boots from the front desk and left the station. The boots were a waste of money now he couldn't go onto Dartmoor, but at least they'd been an explanation for his visit to Plymouth, one that didn't involve seeing which ships might offer a quick way out if things got too uncomfortable. He thought 'help at short notice' with some contempt. They'd love to arrest him now if they had a chance of proving anything, and they must know he knew it. Hopefully they'd turn up something good against Wargrave soon, and then they could have their closed case and he wouldn't be bored and on edge in sleepy Oakbridge.

There was a public phone box across the street and he gave the operator his sister's address in London. He got as far as "Have the police..." before Ida interrupted him.

"Yes, they have! They wanted to search the house, they've taken your trunk away, they've been asking the neighbours if they know you ... What on earth have you done?"

"Nothing illegal, I just got out of a mix-up in Devon. I'll buy you something when I get back."

"What sort of mix-up?"

"Did the police not say? They are horribly unco-operative."

Ida laughed.

"They were even more secretive than you. They wanted to know if you'd shot anyone in Africa and I told them I should hope not. Oh, and they asked did we know a Vera Claythorne. I said I don't care to know what women you're entangled with."

"You're implying things now, stop it. She's a very respectable schoolmistress."

Ida actually did go uncharacteristically quiet. Philip thought he'd better find a suitable way to explain what had happened, but before he could decide where to start she suddenly asked in a sober and rather frightened voice:

"Philip, are you sure you're alright? One of them was a detective and he kept asking if we'd noticed any odd behaviour..."

"Jesus, Ida, I don't need you to look after me."

"Money?"

"Money's fine. I'll see you in London."

He hung up and silently cursed the police. He'd write to his parents or one of his other sisters in Dublin to let them know what was going on, and they'd tell her well before he got back. Although if he didn't find some stable income before U. N. Owen's fee ran out they would probably start sending each other those "What shall we do about Philip?" letters again. It had been the main family occupation ten years ago, before he solved the problem for them by going to South Africa. He was beginning to think coming back had been a mistake.

~~~

The street outside was deserted in the afternoon sun, apart from a man in a grey pullover loitering outside a closed pub. He looked vaguely familiar, but didn't react when Philip walked past. On the High Street there were more people around, and he did get a couple of odd looks. Perhaps news had got around locally. Perhaps news had got around locally. The headlines were still dominated by the likelihood of war, but 'Deaths on Mystery Island' had made Page 2 of the Express. Philip bought the paper and read the story on the spot. The police had not yet released any details to the public, and the writer had made up for it by repeating a slew of rumours about the island's ownership which had apparently been in the papers all year. There was speculation as to whether the whole thing had been arranged by Hollywood, and the friends of well-known society figure Tony Marston were said to be very concerned about his well-being. Philip regretted not choosing a better-quality paper.

He looked around in the vague hope that something interesting was going on and noticed that the same man in the pullover was nearby, talking to a woman with a small child. Suddenly he remembered where he'd seen him before -- he'd glimpsed him yesterday afternoon at the station, dressed in a police uniform. It wasn't a huge co-incidence in such a small town, but it gave him an uneasy feeling. 

He set off casually along the street, leaving the policeman still engaged in his conversation. After a few minutes he came to an old-fashioned cafe with large windows which revealed a mostly middle-aged and female clientele. He turned into it and barely had time to order tea and begin reading about military talks in Moscow when the policeman came in and settled at a table on the other side of the room. Philip smiled to himself grimly behind his newspaper. If the man stayed this obvious it wouldn't be hard to shake him off. On the other hand, he didn't want to look guilty when Vera was rather relying on him. 

The policeman threw a surreptitious glance in his direction and Philip caught his gaze and raised his eyebrows. The policeman looked away again hastily. Philip returned innocently to his tea. He'd just have to wait it out and hope for the best.


	6. Chapter 6

Vera had been worried that the inquests would be adjourned until after the start of term, but a few days after the police surgeons finished their investigations Inspector Maine visited to tell her all eight would be going ahead as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry about the further ordeal, Miss, but it shouldn't take more than a week."

She assured him she would get through it.

Cyril's inquest hadn't attracted much interest from anyone outside the family, but the town hall where Marston's was held was full of curious locals, journalists and other assorted spectators. She could pick out Marston's parents, a man with a grimly-set face and a woman who wept quietly through the whole proceeding. There was also a group of well-dressed young people who occupied the whole front row on the other side of the aisle from Mr and Mrs Marston. Philip nudged her before the court opened and whispered "Marston's friends."

He seemed to be right. One of them, a small woman in a Parisian-looking hat, even got up and left in horror when Vera began to describe how Marston had collapsed. For Vera, having to describe the gramophone record was worse, though the coroner made it clear that no one was suggesting its accusations were anything more than the product of a disturbed mind.

She ran into the woman who'd left in the cloakroom afterwards.

"Miss Claythorne, isn't it? Angela Barker. I'm a friend of Tony's."

Vera expressed some polite condolences, and listened to Angela talk about how none of them had been able to believe it. She was finding herself a little envious of Marston, having so many people care this much about him.

"So you know the Hamiltons?" Angela said conversationally. Vera was taken aback, and something in her expression caused Angela to add hastily: "If you don't mind talking about it. That poor child."

"Oh, no -- it's alright. I don't know them socially." This was Vera's first chance to hear anything of Hugo since she'd last seen him, and as casually as she could, she said "I heard Hugo's married now?"

Angela frowned.

"I don't think so -- we met last year when he was back in England and he wasn't then. Not a very sociable type, is he?"

Vera felt a flood of relief, though it was not total -- a lot could happen in a year. It was odd that he'd seemed unsociable, but he'd told her several times that he hated the pretension of London society, and perhaps that accounted for it.

"I wasn't really in a position to say."

"I can't stand all that fuss about position," said Angela. "You must come to lunch with us tomorrow. We're driving over to Dartmouth."

Vera explained that she had to give evidence at General MacArthur's inquest.

"Oh, of course. Dinner then? Or we were thinking of tennis in the afternoon."

Vera agreed quite readily. She loved tennis. Angela hurried off to meet her friends, and Vera began to wonder about "back in England." Hugo had said once that he wanted to visit America, and of course he could afford to go anywhere he wanted now. She pushed the thought away, and went outside.

Philip was standing on the town hall steps, watching Marston's friends gathering around their car. They hadn't spoken much since they got off the island, still worried that the police would think they were co-operating, but she went over to join him now.

"Look at that bunch of vultures," he said. "I heard the one in green is some kind of gossip writer."

Vera glanced over in slight alarm, but it was not any worse than having the crime reporters there, and she'd reconciled herself to that already. 

"I don't see why they're vultures because they're concerned about their friend."

"If it was about friendship they'd be at his funeral, not his inquest." Philip was now craning his neck to look at Inspector Maine talking to the coroner.

"One of them asked me to play tennis tomorrow."

Philip said "Sounds fun," but didn't look at her or give any sign of moving. She immediately felt a little annoyed at herself: of course she wouldn't be the centre of his attention once they were back in the real world. She wasn't even sure if she liked him. It wasn't quite right, the way he said and did whatever he wanted. All the same, she looked back when she reached the corner of the road, and part of her was pleased to find he was watching her go.

She didn't see him after General MacArthur's inquest the next day. It was quite stifling indoors now the bad weather had cleared, and she wandered to the countryside at the edge of town and back again, enjoying the freedom to walk as far as she wanted. Some people glanced at her as she walked down the little high street, and she walked a little faster each time it happened, but for the most part she was ignored. She'd stopped and closed her eyes to enjoy the late afternoon sun on her face when she heard Philip's voice call her name and looked around, blinking. He was accompanied by a tired-looking man in a military uniform, whom Vera had noticed watching the inquest earlier with sombre concentration.

"I've been looking for you. Captain MacArthur was very touched by your evidence this morning."

"I was so glad to know my uncle went peacefully. Or," the Captain remembered the medical evidence and corrected himself, "that he was peaceful just before he went."

"I liked him very much." She was more sorry for his death than for any of the others, though it wouldn't be quite right to tell his nephew that his resignation at the end had turned out to be unnecessary. He wouldn't know what it had felt like to be on the island, and she certainly couldn't explain that she'd known how his uncle had felt about Henry Richmond.

"He was always so kind to me when I was a boy. We spoke of military matters a great deal at one time, but he wanted to speak of the war less and less as he got older. He kept himself to himself for the most part."

"I'm so sorry," said Vera. There was a pause, and then Philip broke in, addressing himself to Vera.

"I spoke to the police after the inquest. They still can't trace the money that paid for the island, but they've been investigating old Wargrave's affairs and there's a hell of a lot missing from his accounts."

This was good news, though Vera's feelings were slightly tempered with annoyance that the police and Philip were having man-to-man chats behind her back. 

"On the subject of money..." said Captain MacArthur in apologetic tones.

"Of course, I'll write you a cheque." Philip turned back to Vera and explained. "Captain MacArthur kindly bailed me out."

Vera felt a rush of panic which was surely baseless. They didn't bail people out on murder charges -- or did they?

"I'm up next Monday for possessing a firearm without a certificate."

She stared at him for a moment, then this suddenly struck her as the funniest thing she'd ever heard.

"Don't laugh." Philip was barely suppressing a smile himself, and looked very attractive. "It could be a £50 fine."

"I'm sure the magistrate will go easy in the circumstances," said Captain MacArthur earnestly. Vera remembered that she was standing in the street with a man whose uncle had just been murdered, and got herself back under control.

"Will you be staying long in Devon, Captain?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I have to get back to my regiment tomorrow. War could break out any minute. We're all very anxious about it. The country simply doesn't have enough troops, or equipment for that matter. In my own regiment..."

Captain MacArthur did not notice Philip rolling his eyes at Vera. She decided to cut him off before they were subjected to a full lecture.

"All this talk of war does put our troubles into perspective."

"Well, I wouldn't say... What I mean to say is, you've done extraordinarily well." He turned to Philip. "Have you considered joining up if it keeps on like this? We could do with a few more intelligent men who are good in a crisis. I could put in a word."

Philip didn't look like the idea appealed to him.

"The colonies are more my line of country. Less petty oversight."

Captain MacArthur frowned at this. "Colonial experience can be very useful of course..."

Vera was not sure she wanted to hear about Philip's colonial experience. She excused herself politely, explaining that she had a tennis appointment. The Captain was pleased to hear of her plans.

"Best not to dwell on things," he said firmly, and thanked her again for her kindness to his uncle. She left the two men engaged in their military discussion.


	7. Chapter 7

Angela's hotel was much nicer than the guesthouse which the police were paying for Vera to stay in. Oakbridge was too far inland to attract the number of summer visitors who flocked to Paignton and Torquay, so it was rather small and old-fashioned, but it had very pretty grounds. Vera walked round the terrace and admired them. She was ready to bring up her invitation from Angela if anyone questioned her right to be there, but most of the guests were elderly and seemed more interested in their newspapers than their surroundings. A large dining-room opened onto the terrace, and she walked through it, found the lobby, and sat to wait for Angela. It felt uncomfortably like waiting for a job interview.

She eventually came downstairs with a young man who introduced himself tersely as Alec Radcliffe.

"I thought it would be fun if we all played together," she said. "How was the inquest?"

Radcliffe frowned. "I don't think you should ask for details, darling, it might upset you again."

Angela ignored him and said: "It's too awful that it should be Wargrave. My father knew him a little -- he's a KC you know -- and he even came to our house once. Weren't you there too?"

"All those lawyers are the same to me," said Radcliffe. He looked rather coolly at Vera and said, "I don't think I know your people?"

"My father died at Passchendaele; I don't remember him that well." Vera could tell when people were trying to place her, and she didn't like to make it easy for them. It didn't matter at her school -- anyone being snobbish there was putting on airs -- but Radcliffe's annoying air of casual superiority was the real thing. He didn't push the question, apparently more from lack of interest than politeness.

"Shall we go down to the court?" asked Angela.

Vera, who'd assumed they were waiting for someone, said "Are we going to play with just three?"

"Why not?" said Angela. "It's only fun."

This attitude turned out to accurately foreshadow the quality of their tennis, but they played with Vera facing both of them at once and she still got some satisfaction from winning. 

"I wish I could play like that," said Angela cheerfully as they walked back to the hotel. "I do so admire people who are good at things."

Vera explained that she had spent three years at physical training college. Angela seemed to find the fact that she worked even more interesting than her ability at tennis.

"The games mistress at my school was rather a gorgon. I still shudder at the sight of a lacrosse stick. But for you it must be rather fun, to play games all day and be paid for it."

Vera wasn't sure how seriously to take this remark.

"It's more like herding cats. But I enjoy it sometimes." The thought of her job was deeply dispiriting. She had wired the headmistress before the first inquest to warn her that the school might be mentioned in the newspapers, and the response had made her suspect that she might find herself replaced by September. She was beginning to feel a weary trepidation at the thought that she could be out of work for good. 

"We really must go and dress for dinner," said Angela when they got back to the terrace. Most people in sight were already in evening dress, and Vera was surprised to find herself annoyed at the sight. They must be aware that all that dressing up was a meaningless show, especially for the identical men. At least the women could choose pretty dresses if they could afford them. It was something she'd thought occasionally before what happened on the island, but now it was tinged with contempt as she remembered how everyone there dropped all pretence at civilisation, even herself.

She'd had an indefinite hope that Hugo's name would come up again, but she'd been afraid to mention him herself and it hadn't happened. She couldn't quite bring herself to say goodbye and know that the chance was gone. While she was hesitating Radcliffe, who'd been silent since the game, suddenly exclaimed:

"Wargrave! The old man who looked like a corpse."

"What?" said Vera.

"I remember him now." Radcliffe turned to Angela. "It was at your father's, when I was still planning to go back to Singapore. He was ignoring me until I said I was leaving the country, then he got me alone and started talking about how half the murderers in the world can't be hanged because nothing can be proved. Gave me the creeps."

"How horrible!" said Angela. Vera didn't respond. It was yet another simple solution that she hadn't seen, and she could feel her thoughts running out-of-control again. Of course Wargrave hadn't needed to see into their souls to find his victims; like Philip said, someone always blabbed. And there was only one person who could've talked about her. She couldn't quite imagine Hugo's warm smile in the same room as Wargrave's cruel eyes, but she could hear him say "I can't prove it." It was just what he'd wanted.

"You should tell the police," she said as firmly as she could. "They're interested in all the evidence they can find."

Radcliffe seemed a little taken aback at the emotion in her voice, and promised that he would. Vera left, still in her tennis clothes, and tried telling herself as she walked down the hill that Wargrave wouldn't have told anyone his plans. And it wasn't like Hugo to tell secrets to strangers.

She was calm again when she got back to the guesthouse, and focused her thoughts on Mrs Rogers' inquest the next day. It should be easy, as all she would have to say was that Armstrong had told her she was dead. She'd met Mrs Rogers' mother yesterday at the police station, a stern old woman in a black dress which looked almost Victorian. Vera had guessed who she was even before she was introduced, since the woman whose arm she was leaning on was the image of Mrs Rogers if Mrs Rogers had been ten years younger and had red hair. 

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Vera had said.

Mrs Johnson's reply had been unexpectedly angry. "I told her she should never have married that ungodly man."

"Mrs Johnson," said Vera, taken aback, "It wasn't your daughter's husband who..."

She was interrupted by a gasping sob which seemed to shake the whole of Mrs Johnson's body. Her daughter gave Vera an apologetic look.

"Excuse us, Miss. My mother is very distressed." And she'd led her mother outside.

Standing in the hallway of the guesthouse, Vera thought of Mrs Hamilton. She wasn't hungry at all, so she went straight up to her room, where she locked the door and lit a cigarette. Hugo must have talked, but he couldn't have known what would happen, she thought. He couldn't have. She could hear movement and voices downstairs, and she felt so alone that it hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised at the last minute it should be KC not QC, haha. I wanted Vera to be a graduate of Leys Physical Training College, but it didn't seem natural to specify here. I will try to get it in if I post the sequel. Vera struck me as being quite isolated in the series even though we see basically none of her current life off the island. I don't know if it's because she has such a big secret or it's just that scene at the beginning where she's gazing out of the window in the rain.


	8. Chapter 8

Philip knew a lot of women who wouldn't smoke in public, but it turned out Vera wasn't one of them. When he arrived at the station, she was sitting alone with a cigarette at the far end of the platform. He strolled over casually, looking forward to a less tedious train journey than usual. He'd made the mistake of telling Vera that the police had been tailing him, and she'd become tense and distant even though he was already sure they'd stopped. He had no hard feelings though -- Wargrave's inquest had come off perfectly, and that evening she'd drunk all the gin he bought her and kissed him goodnight outside her guesthouse. She'd mostly wanted to talk about whether everyone else in the bar was looking at them, but that would change once they were out of Devon. 

"I got your note," he said.

"Yes. I can see."

He stood with his back to the painted metal pillar which held up the canopy. For a moment she looked away from him thoughtfully, and then she said:

"I didn't believe you when you said we'd get through it."

"I thought I'd botched it when you started screaming upstairs."

She turned and looked up at him. "Only then? You really thought, the rest of the time, that we wouldn't die?"

"I knew we didn't have to. Are you always sure what will happen? You must be disappointed a lot."

"Do you mean Hugo?"

Philip stared in surprise. "No."

"No, of course not. I'm just not used to someone else knowing."

That seemed to kill the conversation for a moment. Vera finished her cigarette and put it out in the container of drooping flowers by her bench. Then she looked him up and down, and didn't look embarrassed when he caught her eye.

"I'm trying to imagine you in London. Do you have a job there?"

"I know some people." He paused, then added, "I owe my brother-in-law ten pounds."

Vera smiled.

The train pulled in from Plymouth only a few minutes late. Philip climbed onto the step of the third-class carriage and stood in the doorway to watch Vera assuring the porter that she didn't need help with her case. Inside the carriage the early afternoon sunshine had made the wooden tables warm to the touch, though fortunately the trains weren't crowded at this time of day. Philip picked a bench and slid along it just far enough for another person to sit down. Vera lifted her suitcase deftly onto the overhead shelf and, ignoring his meaningful look, took the seat opposite. She leaned over and whispered:

"Wait til the ticket inspector's finished after Taunton, then we can look for a first-class compartment."

The third-class carriage gradually became half-, then almost three-quarters full, then began to empty out again as they passed through the last small towns before the unbroken stretch to London. When they got to first class they found the unoccupied compartment they wanted. Vera shut the door and checked that the windows to the corridor were closed, then leaned across him and closed the one that faced outside.

"It'll be stifling," said Philip.

"It'll still be better than back there." She sat down next to him, took off her jacket, and loosened the collar of her blouse. It was a particularly close-fitting one. Philip let his gaze drift downwards appreciatively until it reached the waistband of her skirt. He tugged at the hook and eye.

"You sewed it back on, then."

"Don't pull it off again. I thought you were hot too?"

He smiled. Maybe he wouldn't have to get her drunk again after all.

"I can't have this on show."

He reached into his jacket and brought out his new gun. To his amusement, Vera started as though it had gone off. She turned herself towards him, elbow on the back of the seat, so that she was shielding it from the view of anyone in the corridor. 

"I don't suppose you got a certificate in the last week?"

Philip laughed. "From Inspector Maine? No, I wired a man I know in London who knows someone in Plymouth. He ripped me off of course -- forget the trenches, this thing probably saw action against the Zulus. It works though. Hinge is a bit worn." He opened it up to show her. "But I'll find the money for something better when we get back."

Somewhere in front of them the sound of footsteps emerged over the noise of the engine. Philip swore and tried to close the barrel. Then he grabbed the jacket out of Vera's arms and threw it over the gun. Abruptly she sat back in her seat and looked over to the window, where the man in the corridor had stopped to look in, his eye caught by the sudden movement. He looked from Vera's suddenly flustered face to the jacket on Philip's lap, and grinned at Philip knowingly. Then he moved on and they heard him open the door of the next compartment. Vera snatched her jacket back again.

"Put that thing away before someone pulls the emergency cord. This isn't a gangster film."

Philip knew it would really be safer in his suitcase, but now he'd had the old one taken twice he liked having it nearby. He put it back inside his jacket.

"So what did you get me in here to say?" he asked.

Vera hesitated, then said "When we were on the island, why did you confess to all those murders? You didn't think everyone there would die."

"What could they have done if they hadn't died? Anyway, Miss Brent's face was a picture. So was yours."

"You told the police you didn't do it."

"Well, when there's a police inspector giving you the evil eye, admitting a lot of murders seems less of a good idea."

"I still don't understand why you'd..."

"Look," Philip interrupted, "if you're worried I'll start saying too much at parties, just remember I kept my mouth shut for seven years without you. So don't be boring about it."

Vera narrowed her eyes. "I trust you. Obviously. I'm just trying to understand."

"Think of me as a fascinating mystery." 

She continued to look at him sceptically.

"I'm here to make your life more interesting. When you can tear yourself away from teaching, that is. Do they keep you locked up at the weekends, or is that just the girls?"

"It's a day school. It may not matter anyway. It's not good for a school's reputation when one of the mistresses gets mixed up in a notorious murder case. I'll only be there until they find a replacement."

She sounded as though she found this entirely reasonable. Philip said: "There'll be plenty of jobs for women when war breaks out."

"In factories, you mean? I can't get a typing job. And who knows how long it'll go on for?"

She gazed resignedly into the distance, whether imagining a dreary job or dreary unemployment Philip wasn't sure. Then she reached out her hand towards his face and he felt a jolt of excitement before he realised she just wanted his cigarette.

"Sorry," she said when he leaned away.

"No, here." Philip inhaled once more and handed it over. After a moment she gave it back, the paper now slightly greasy with Vaseline, and moved closer so that their legs were touching.

"Women often leave to get married."

Philip looked down to see if she meant what he thought she meant. She glanced up at him and then away again with an almost frightened expression. He leaned back in his seat and tried not to laugh. 

"I gave up married women last year. Always more trouble than it's worth."

She stood up and for a moment he thought he'd actually shocked her. Then he realised she'd been expecting a serious answer.

"I can't marry you next week. Anyway, wouldn't your colleagues find it rather rushed?"

"That's not what I meant." She sat down again. "It's just ... It wasn't a very good job, but it was the best I could get. If I got engaged, they'd have to replace me anyway."

"So you're trying to salvage some dignity? How romantic."

"I didn't take you for a romantic."

"I like to be appreciated. Were you engaged to Hugo?"

"I don't know. He just went off -- as if nothing ever happened..."

Philip rubbed her wrist with his thumb and thought about the proposal. The homes of the married men he'd known in Africa had been rather dull and airless, their wives mainly interested in complaining about servants and trying to keep up with last year's fashions from England. He had no doubt Vera could fit into that society, but that wasn't the Vera he wanted. On the other hand, if he turned her down she might go and find someone else, just when she'd admitted she wanted him. And there weren't a lot of women who stuck around once they got to know him.

"I'll give it a try. You can come and have tea at my sister's, if you want proof of honourable intentions. She'll think you're good for me."

"I'd like that. I'll give you my address." She handed him a folded piece of paper and he looked at it -- an undistinguished part of West London where he'd never been -- and put it in his pocket. She added:

"My landlady thinks I'm coming back tomorrow. So we can go somewhere private tonight."

This was exactly what Philip had been about to suggest. Perhaps, he thought, going to Soldier Island would turn out to be worth it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who left kudos! I originally started most of these scenes as flashbacks for a different fic which is stalled, hence them being still a bit disconnected and Wargrave's inquest not being included though it probably should be. I'm glad people enjoyed them anyway!


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